Ad Incendium
by Dr.Funke
Summary: Miss Pensky, are you aware of the rate and frequency in which your robots tend to combust?"
1. Default

**Disclaimer:** If by "own" Zoey 101 you mean "has absolutely no connection to Nick Schwartz, Nickelodeon, or the writers\directors\cast of the show" then yeah I totally own it…and the million references made…and France.

**Rating:** T for cursing, a wee bit of nudity, and mayhem.

**Summary:** "Miss Pensky, are you aware of the rate and frequency in which your robots tend to combust?"

**A\N:** How goes it kids? If a one-shot and a multi-chapter story had a slightly disfigured baby, this is what it would look like. (Apologies in advance for any and all OCC-ness) Rambling abounds, read at your own caution. *_scurries off to watch season III_*


	2. Superchunk

**A\N:** You are now free to move about the story.

I

ℓ

The camera pans across the fall strewn field where the newborn sun blinks shyly just below the powder blue skyline, then moves quickly to catch up to its subject strolling lazily across the grass. The bedraggled morning tosses with kinetic energy, pacing in the ribboned clouds and mud drenched grass in athletic overtures. Whistles sound, balloons bob like the elderly dancing in their sleep, and the wind twitches, rubbing against the primary colored ticker tape and doing violent dances on the heads of the crowd gathered beside the bleachers.

It's a good sized lot, shifting, turning and blowing their noses on their assorted sleeves. The camera descends to a square focus, moving along them slowly like a cat moves through tall grasses and they stare back-shy desert roses clutching copies of _Teen Beat_, savage-looking eighth graders with overbites and _Aqua Teen _t-shirts hurling sling shots at each other, bored seniors lighting up Virginia Slims, the night janitor undoing his flask, the school nurse, three fourths of the soccer team, a hobo, the Mathletes Vice President, and a middle-aged gentlemen wearing tennis whites and a grandmother's shawl calling himself White Owl.

The pig-tailed girl with the flute case strapped across her back is leaning on the fence, playing with a shiny object she moves from palm to palm before bolting upright at the smooth, whipped-caramel voice that lingers lazily across the field.

"Ladies...welcome to heaven."

ℓ

Michael has two, possible three problems:

1) Nineties girl bands

His little sister waits all the way till summer vacation to seek vengeance upon him for being all first born and awesome and instead of harvesting her revenge and serving it to him in tiny morals over time like a good super villian (okay _good_ is the wrong word um...normal), she chooses the morning he catches his back to school flight to dedicate herself to the task of erasing all the music on his iPod and downloading every Destiny's Child song EVER.

Meaning he has to shoot hoops, climb ropes and do other gym-esque activities to Beyonce's girl power jams which strangely seem to improve his game until he misses a pass and goes flying into the bleachers. His ear buds pop out and _Survivor_ fills the gym, earning a cheer\sing along from the girls by the fountain, sad headshakes from his teammates and the classic, limited edition 'WTF' face from Coach Klausen.

(In other news, he's dropping gym.)

ℓ

The crowd shifts like a herd of directionally challenged Woolly Mammoths, bouncing up and down, executing tiny dances in the circles of their personal space and snatching this-looks-casual-right? glances at the arrival slipping on his aviator sunglasses near the fence. The camera outlines his lazy movement as he saunters into the weak sunlight, and the crowd emits noises of barely contained ecstasy when he stops in front of the bleachers, just short of their grasping fingers.

"This has been one bitch of a hardcore competition. Logan nods definitively, pushing his sunglasses on to his nose. It sucks it has to end."

The crowd makes studio audience "aww" sounds (a few _Teen Beat_ girls pouting in pure protest) and the camera moves beyond their disappointment to wander absently to girl w\flute standing by the fence watching the proceedings.

"It's gonna suck harder for two of you in like...five seconds."

Close up to three girls standing on different levels of the bleachers. The camera lingers on each face for a millisecond, bypassing the Difster's jungle of acne, narrowly avoiding the loud fuchsia of Wednesday Adam's retainer and going straight for Hot Chip's 'why-aren't-you-people-building-a-shrine-to-worship-me-with?' grin before backing up to encase the library and lacrosse field in the frame.

The lacrosse players look around wearily as Couch Klausen jumps up and down, waving and making obscene gestures toward the camera. His screams ("We're trying to practice here hotshot!") are pleasantly drowned out by the sudden swell of _A Thing Called Love_ which blasts from the boom box held firmly by the prim, silver-haired butler standing at Logan's right shoulder.

"Barnaby, the envelope please!"

The silver-haired man bows deeply, producing from his breast pocket, a white envelope which he hands his young master delicately. The camera zooms in on Logan's ravenous grins as he holds the envelope triumphantly above his head and head bangs like an intoxicated Meticallia fan possessed by spirits too powerful to quantify. He whips off his sunglasses, takes a step toward the bleachers and proclaims proudly:

"This is it bitches."

ℓ

2) He forgets to wake up Chase.

He's not like, OCD or anything but in the subtle codes of Best Friendery (it's a word, look it up) it's strange and wrong to violate the morning routine of whacking his comrade senseless with pillows to start the day. The best part of waking up is semi-blunt trauma to the face (um...in your cup) but he wakes up late and tries to put the finishing touches on his Western Civ project and he and Logan take their breakfast etiquette debate ("Dude you can't lick my pop tart after I called dibs on it!") all the way from the cafeteria to the lacrosse field where Logan has to shoot the last episode of his stupid show. (Michael thinks it totally should've been called the _Reese Circle of Herpes_)

He's in Bio, making a paper crane and shaking his head furiously to Dr. McMullen's insane, MTV-fueled morning requests ("Who's ready to get crunk on science?") when he remembers.

(He has an awful feeling this might come back to haunt him at some point during the day...you know, if it isn't busy later.)

ℓ

It starts with twenty PCA girls and a dream.

Or rather, a dream about twenty PCA girls writhing and pleading and fighting each other in gladiator costumes and dancing like monkeys for the chance to train themelseves so that they could one day be worthy of breathing his oxygen. Yeah.

The first, brave, fiery contestants are assembled in the music room and given a brief outline of their challenge. The weak-willed and those easily brought to tears are told to go back to their Phish Food ice-cream and _Dawson's Creek_ reruns 'cause this is war momicita and if you don't like a side of blood with your Cornflakes this Hotness Revolution isn't for you. (Thirty seconds after this statement is made Strawberry Shortcake-a double-jointed PETA enthusiast who is one of the first to be eliminated, passes out by the piano. Logan takes the time that she's being loaded on to the stretcher, to adjust his statement, saying there won't be any actual blood, and that he was just using the word to let everyone know it was gonna be hell- a literary device Barnaby later tells him is called a metaphor.)

The hell? A series of beyond brutal tasks created to test their strength, endurance and appreciation of his God-like physic (Adonis _wished_ he looked this good) pushing them to the boundaries of exertion, sanity, and hotness recognition. Their values and beliefs are drawn through time consuming and excruciating measures like field trips, (a.k.a The Knitting Festival? Thanks Grandma, How Much of this Stuff will it take to Hang Myself? or Math Camp: You Times Me Divided by Trig Equals Boredom! Now in Five Fun Flavors!) interviews, ("What specifically about my hair would you say best defines your raw animal desire for me?") the How Well Do You Know Logan? Quiz:

**1. Who would you say pales in comparison to Logan more: **

A) Johnny Depp

B) Brad Pitt

C) David Beckham

D) Logan Reese

**2. If you had to choose ONE quality of Logan's that was your favorite, it would be:**

A) His stunningly crazy awesome badassitude

B) His overwhelming, almost criminal hotness

C) His total generousness about being so mind-blowingly fantastic and not rubbing it in other people's faces even when they totally deserve it.

D) All of the above.

(Hint: The answer's D)

and the grueling, mile-long obstacle course featuring tires, rope swings, four timed pool laps, and a trek through a bouncy castle converted into a mini Temple of Doom-through which the constants' run whilst being pelted with multicolored funhouse balls- without dropping the fragile bottles of his special hair gel balanced on their heads. (Barnaby serenading them with a rustic version of the _The Rocky Theme_ on a slightly damaged Playschool horn)

Having forgotten the names of the contestants about five minutes into the first episode, he gives them nicknames to keep track. As twenty slowly becomes fourteen and then lessons to eight, it gets harder to harder to determine which of the screaming, crying, post-pubescent Amazons drunk on his love juice worships him more.

_The Reese Circle of Love_ is the most watched web show since the short-lived by critically acclaimed _Chase and Michael Sh_-no screw that, _Circle of Love_ is the most watched, most-talked about, single greatest web show in the history of ever. The hot, eager PCA chicks vye for his affection and the chance (if they should be victorious) for a one night only coupon redeemable for one meal (Sushi Rox) hair touching privileges, and the opportunity to let him free her from the oppressive nature of her clothing. It's a natural phenomenon that whips across PCA like an awesome plague and Logan tears the left corner of the envelope open to the rising cries of the crowd.

It's all come down to Hot Chip, Wednesday Adams, and the Diffster.

ℓ

3) (And this cannot be stressed enough)

Western Civ makes him die on the inside.

It's seriously, the worst two hours of his entire life, including that one time Quinn's Gender Bender (rough model, sharpie on cardboard, constructed during school wide flute recital circa eighth grade) turns him into a girl for a whole day and he has to wear Zoey's skirt and go to a car wash and the night janitor tells him he has a pretty mouth. (_Shudder_)

Western Civ is where dreams and happiness get shot at repeatedly before seeking shelter at the bottom of his stomach. Pop quizzes and Nazis and Dr. Wrinkles McNarcolepsy's old dude from Ferris Bueller voice all make Michael cry on the inside and no amount of doodling, Tic-Tac-Toe, or under the table Richard Pryor videos via his new DS can vanquish the vomit-inducing slurp of European history digesting his soul.

Yum.

ℓ

Coach Klauson screams till he's red in the face. An angry little-scarlet skinned Dwarf wrapped in a jogging suit, dancing, holding his lacrosse stick to the heavens and screaming at a God who can't quite hear him over Justin Hawkins's screechy falsetto.

The camera trembles on the faces of the bleacher girls, the crowd inhales as one and the girl with the flute's standing bolt upright, holding the shiny object in her palm, watching the proceedings with rapt, animal-like attention.

The song dies, the wind relents, the soccer team fidgets, Logan rips open the envelope and of course it's Danielle Hewitt-Vaughn, (Hot Chip) she gets 100% on the How Well Do You Know Logan? quiz, her hair is almost as pretty as his and his Dad fights her Dad for the last breadstick whilst lunching at the club. (Sometimes, Logan's dad will skip out on the check by pretending to go to the bathroom, run to the parking lot and write discouraging things in the dust on the driver's side window of Danielle's Dad's Mercedes. Sometimes, Logan's Dad will hide behind his Porsche and watch Danielle's Dad curse the heavens whilst swearing vengeance in the form of a good, old-fashioned ass-kicking on the golf course. Often, adults are weird.)

The crowd explodes as Danielle smugly descends the bleachers, waving like Miss Teen USA. The eighth graders fire their slingshots in group processions, freshman girls wave and cry and bounce up and down in _Tiger Beat_ fits of hysteria. The nurse wipes a few tears from her face, distributes tissues to the hobo and White Owl, and Barnaby cranks up _You're So Damn Hot _for the masses.

Seniors dance with soccer players, the Diffster bursts into tears and is consoled by the Mathletes V.P. and Wednesday Adams rolls her eyes, murmurs something about the competition being fixed and wanders off to get a Danish from the machine. The camera pans to the cafeteria roof where Mr. Reese's pyrotechnics man has set off a display, spelling Logan's name in fireworks. There's a malfunction and it gets to **L**-**O**-**G** before crapping out, but those three letters sear the morning sky in a jubilant array of color.

Sort of.

(Logan thinks he vastly overestimates the power of fireworks to obscure the daylight.)

Amid the spastic dancing and cries of rapture, the head banging, ferocious smiles and smug non-verbal come-ons the camera zooms in, desperate to catch the wild, shaking, life of the movement for the show's final scene, breathing raggedly in ecstatic piles of brightly lit fatigue.

(There's a good five seconds- just after smoke starts billowing out of the second story window of the library and right before the naked dude comes tearing out of the bushes- where the light falls in perfect patches accented by the shade of the maples, with everyone still in the next movement of their action, hands in mid air, bodies in mid turn, smiling, laughing, flirting, the hobo snoring, Danielle under Logan's arm, the crease of a perfect, wrinkled smile beginning in Barnaby's powdery upper lip, sky and sun and remnants of crimson explosives framed in a boxy black vision.)

The shot is golden.

Well...until the pig-tailed chick with the flute jumps on Logan's back.

ℓ

Dapples of strawberry heat spill softly in the dense warmth, noise and glitter and bubbles clotting the sparkling air that blows in a train whistle from the projector. Powder blue pushes at the Plexiglas window like warm, blown glass dousing the library in a cool fever.

Linear strips of light from the drawn shades make thin lines run marathons against the candy red of his shirt. The Holocaust movie rolls on in black and white riots amidst the deep sea swell of cell phone jams, errant games of telephone and the cheery beep of Game Boy Tetris.

Michael's sucking on a strawberry Starburst, making his WWI sock puppet lip synch _Say_ _My Name_ when it smacks him in the nose.

ℓ

"Ow! What the hell?"

"Remember Superchunk you egomaniacal bitch monkey?"

"Your cankles look familiar, were you ever imprisoned in the Reese Sex Slave Academy?"

ℓ

The smell is at once; minty, fruity, spicy, sour, and luxurious with a dash of something behind it, coyness pawing at hope and it seizes up in his nasal cavities in a cotton candy 'WTF' explosion. It expands like Amazon Rainforest shade, a tiny dot of tropical perspiration sliding slowly down the great green face of a giant plant in the silence of a jungle untouched. Wet earth and dark hibiscus, the innate senses swirling together in waves, the eruption of volcanic flowers and temperate coolness of exotic rain falling on hard earth in sideways sheets.

His brain lights up softly in movements of sleepy Kung Fu and Orange Crush flavored scent memory. Neon light strobing over acidic Skittles (Taste the Rainbow!) melting in frothy Mountain Dew monsoons and the sleep-fogged circuits over lap and split, sending shards of the last twenty-four hours surging toward his cranium in a dissolving cherry momentum.

Halo Fest. DDR. Glue-on eyes. Glow in the dark stars. Mad Libs. Oreos. All war and no sleep crashing sideways into soft light, glittering eyelids flushed cheeks, strands of syrup-colored hair flying against his nose wrinkled mid-exhale. Liquefying Normandy, indigo nails tapping a worn Psych book, sparkly gel pen on tanned wrist:

_Mocking Bird at 4:00_

_Sushi Rox with Brian_

_Study group w\Q._

He sees his name but the rest of the sentence's been wiped away and Michael inhales so deeply it makes him tire swing dizzy. Fuzzy motion lines blur across the glistening air, and his scent-Coke, Pixie-Styx, Snuggle-bakes in batches of sugary heat that swell across the dark library like sparkling atomic shadows.

Michael looks around the swollen darkness, pits of laughter, candy color beeps of Tetris, snores like train whistles in snow storms, feeling like McGruff the Crime Dog guest starring on _Where in the World is Carmen San Diego_? It's nothing and everything he's ever smelled and the force of his sneeze makes his ear buds pop out.

Zeppelins explode on the projector screen, Hitler marches to a shimmering wave of Beyonce, and two minutes before the first flames crawl over the banister above the Fiction section, Dr. Beardy Von Boring instructs the class to break into their small groups and prepare for their presentations. Dizzy with the scent, (is that smoke?) he leans over in the darkness to his partner, who's asleep on her homemade Johnny Depp shrine of a binder, face nestled against the sock puppet on her arm.

Lola shifts slightly, and the scent blooms in his head like a sixth grade sugar high.

**A\N:** Beta anyone?


End file.
